Had not the landlord at this moment knocked at the door, it is probable that quite a long poem might have been laid before the reader. To judge from his look of surprise when he found himself in the room, Herr Kristensen was struck, as Anderson had been, by something unusual in its aspect. But he made no remark. Anderson’s photographs interested him mightily, and formed the text of many autobiographical discourses. Nor is it quite clear how the conversation could have been diverted into the desired channel of Number 13, had not the lawyer at this moment begun to sing, and to sing in a manner which could leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was either exceedingly drunk or raving mad. It was a high, thin voice that they heard, and it seemed dry, as if from long disuse. Of words or tune there was no question. It went sailing up to a surprising height, and was carried down with a despairing moan as of a winter wind in a hollow chimney, or an organ whose wind fails suddenly. It was a really horrible sound, and Anderson felt that if he had been alone he must have fled for refuge and society to some neighbour bagman’s room. The landlord sat open-mouthed. “I don’t understand it,” he said at last, wiping his forehead. “It is dreadful. I have heard it once before, but I made sure it was a cat.” “Is he mad?” said Anderson. “He must be; and what a sad thing! Such a good customer, too, and so successful in his business, by what I hear, and a young family to bring up.” Just then came an impatient knock at the door, and the knocker entered, without waiting to be asked. It was the lawyer, in _déshabille_ and very rough-haired; and very angry he looked. “I beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but I should be much obliged if you would kindly desist—” Here he stopped, for it was evident that neither of the persons before him was responsible for the disturbance; and after a moment’s lull it swelled forth again more wildly than before. “But what in the name of Heaven does it mean?” broke out the lawyer. “Where is it? Who is it? Am I going out of my mind?” “Surely, Herr Jensen, it comes from your room next door? Isn’t there a cat or something stuck in the chimney?” This was the best that occurred to Anderson to say, and he realized its futility as he spoke; but anything was better than to stand and listen to that horrible voice, and look at the broad, white face of the landlord, all perspiring and quivering as he clutched the arms of his chair. “Impossible,” said the lawyer, “impossible. There is no chimney. I came here because I was convinced the noise was going on here. It was certainly in the next room to mine.” “Was there no door between yours and mine?” said Anderson eagerly. “No, sir,” said Herr Jensen, rather sharply. “At least, not this morning.” “Ah!” said Anderson. “Nor tonight?” “I am not sure,” said the lawyer with some hesitation.